Swat Kats Origins - In Canvas Clad
by AjaxRota
Summary: Before the Red Lynx terrorised the skies, before the Blue Manx inspired a nation, there was another great conflict - Megawar One. Terrible new technologies saw the light of day, and katkind trembled. The citizens of The Kingdom had known peace, but that was about to change. A little piece I did set during Megawar One (that's right, not Megawar Two!) Rated T for violence.
It had started seventy days ago.

The criers and gentlekats of the cities had loudly and with great ceremony proclaimed the cause to be noble, that the pursuit of service was the highest honour that those under the crown could hope for. Returned servicekats, the scars of battle displayed proudly, boisterously upon their fur, lined their pockets with coin in exchange for a simple mention as to the grand adventure upon which they had embarked. They spoke in the streets of the thrill of the nobel contest of war, the pounding of one's heart and the vigor in one's blood as shot and shell zipped overhead. They expounded upon the brotherhood of the line formation, the well disciplined, well drilled battlemarch that, while prudent in conflicts one hundred years prior, was to see kats cut down in their hundreds by new weapons too terrible to imagine.

"Load muskets!" they would shout. "By ranks, fire and advance!"

Such displays, no doubt embellished and tidied for the public, could be found from one end of the kingdom to the other, from Kanterbury to The North Sea and everywhere in between, enticing the young and the foolish to join the fray. To watch the soldiers parade in public would stir the hearts of the most sullen kat.

The displays would end, and service papers would be produced. "For King and Country, and twelve shillings a day! By Jove you shall serve!"

All so recklessly, recklessly stupid.

There were those among the maimed, the shell-shocked, that refused the offer of recompense in exchange for yet another public show, yet another dozen young kats off to the grinder. Some, be it that they were of stern morals, or simply bitter, told their story instead, the truth as they saw it. Of course, with the proclamation of martial law by the crown some two years prior, they were rarely heard beyond the dingy confines of run down inns and cafes, passed off as drunkards and beggars by more respectable kats.

For a while, it seemed that the war on the continent was a mere curiosity, a gnashing of teeth and clashing of claws between the kats of Gaul and The Reich, and affair which would little trouble The Kingdom. Despite the best efforts of The Crown, news from the frontlines would find its way across the channel and reach the ears of kats. Fields of blasted earth and ashen trees, bodies as far as the eye could see, twisted and mangled by the ravages of technology. The grand and mighty Redclaws, the King's soldiers sent as a gesture of friendship to the Royal Family of Gaul for the defense of their country, scattered, obliterated, cut down by steel and fire.

And it was spreading.

It spread to the the east, to the vast, snowy land of Rus, where the kats were hardy and dour. To the south, and into the desert plains of Afrika. And, of course, westward, along the continental coast, edging ever closer to the channel, to The Kingdom. What had been known as 'The Continental Affair' had become global. Names were thrown about, discussed at first in private, and then in publications, and finally in the common vernacular. 'The Great War', they were calling it, among others. 'The Grand War.'

The Mega War.

As so, while the continent was reduced to ash, the kats of The Kingdom, safe on the isle, sat idly by, watching from afar, discussing what names to use and which kat to appoint as field marshal of the next expeditionary force. Safe in their homes. Safe in their beds.

And then, upon a cool autumn eve, seventy days ago, the shells started falling.

* * *

The thunderous, raucous blast jolted Percy awake. Sitting bolt upright, the young kat was met with a fusilade of shattered glass, some unseen force having blasted his bedroom window inwards. Several fragments of masonry fell from the ceiling, tumbling down and settling upon his crimson red fur.

Another blast came, along with more debris. It was closer this time, much closer.

The house creaked and groaned, it's very foundations savaged by the force. For the young kat, realisation of the peril in which he had been unwillingly placed hit him as hard as the shells. He wasted no time in throwing the covers from his form and springing to his feet.

"Cripes, where is it?!"

Percy swept the contents of his dresser aside with his paw, discarding the majority of his meagre possessions onto the wooden floor as he frantically searched. It was still dark, the early morning sun having yet to break the horizon, and his paws grasped and clawed blindly in their efforts.

"There!"

His fingers clamped about the heavy, leather-bound notebook, hefting it from the dresser as he sprinted for the door. Another blast rocked the building. Percy steadied himself against the doorframe as the walls shook and shuddered around him. Already he could hear sounds emanating from nearby rooms; running, scampering, and screaming. The city of Kanterbury had been under near-constant bombardment for the past ten weeks, but never this closer, never had they felt in such direct danger.

Sparing no thought for any clothing beyond the loosely tied trousers he currently wore, Percy darted down the stairs.

"Fa!" he yelled, descending three steps at a time. "Oi Fa! We best be off or we're gunna cark it!"

Old Fa, the kind, elderly shekat who had taken him in when he first arrived in The Kingdom was pottering about the kitchen, busy preparing what was to be their breakfast.

"Fa!"

"All coming down." she lamented. "All coming down, it is! I told them, I told them!"

Percy rushed to her side, grabbing at her arm and pulling her back from the stove. "Fa, what the blazes are you doing? We've got to leg it!"

Fa smiled at him, her greying fur long, yet well groomed. "Oh, good morning Percy, are you running errands for the professor again?"

"Bloody hell you old bat, WE'RE BEING SHELLED!"

She pulled her arm back from his grasp. "Oh just let those silly boys have their tussle. Breakfast will be ready soon, go and fetch Sally!"

As she spoke, a number of kats, either wearing their pajamas or draped in bed sheets, bolted past. The building, Fa's boarding house, was home to a number of young, working class kats in addition to Percy. Typically, as the smell of her cooking wafted upwards to their rooms, they would appear, bleary eyed and hungry, ready for nothing more than a bellyfull of her delicious cooking. Such concerns, however, may as well have been distant memories as they fled the building. Dying in your sleep was one thing, but most kats would prefer it take place without being blasted to bits.

"Oh bugger it, I'm off!"

"Take care now!" said Fa, returning to her cooking. "Tell those Redclaws that we don't need any of their nastiness around here, will you. They'll wreck it all, they will!"

Percy was gone, shouldering aside the creaky wooden door and bursting out onto the street.

It was chaos, the early morning bustle of cobblers and coachkats replaced with the utmost urgency of the Redclaws, dashing about in formation, barking orders and calling the city militia to arms.

"They're at the river!" came a cry, quite close to Percy. "The head of the Thames is breached. They've landed!"

As much as his composure in the situation was sorely lacking, it dawned upon Percy that the high pitched whine of shells, and the thunderous din of their impacts was accompanied by a distant rumble. Guns. Heavy artillery was within earshot, perhaps a dozen miles away, pounding the city relentlessly. Until now, the shelling had been sporadic, sometimes landing within the city limits, sometimes hitting nearby villages and hamlets. Occasionally, something important would be struck, a church or a library, yet the message was always the same.

Keep calm and carry on.

"They're coming! Fritz is coming!"

The notion of calm, while ridiculous before, was now firmly within the realm of the truly absurd. Living under constant threat of fiery, explosive death had taken some getting used to, but as was their way, the stoic population of The Kingdom simply weathered the storm. The storm, however, had finally found the chinks in their armour, and was pounding away with unbridled fury.

Percy simply ran. The notebook was all that mattered, or at least the professor had told him that. His lungs filled with smoke as he dashed through the narrow streets, changing his route again and again as he was faced with blockages of rubble, or walls of flame.

He was almost at his destination, rounding the final corner when a paw grasped at him.

"You there, lad, arm up! The enemy are moving up from the river! Look sharp!"

Percy recoiled from the Redclaw. His uniforms was well pressed, tin buttons shining in the light of nearby flames. His musket was slung across his back, unused and unloaded. A member of a press gang, to be sure, seeking out bodies for the upcoming fight.

Percy would have none of it. "Let go! Let go!"

The Redclaw simply tightening his grip.

"Mate, paws off!" yelled Percy.

The soldier was having none of it, and began to drag Percy along. He knew if he was brought within sight of a Redclaw platoon, he'd have a musket thrust into his paws and sent on his way, to either fiery death, or a slow and agonising one. As self-absorbed and pretentious as he knew it would sound, he had more important things to do.

"I said...paws...OFF!"

His clenched fist collided with the underside of the Redclaw's jaw, knocking him backward and over. His head hit the cobbled ground with a sickening crack.

Percy didn't wish to wait for the inevitable discovery of his actions, and was again tearing down the street. The college loomed ahead, a mere block away. He increased his pace as he ran across the large, open courtyard, the notebook still firmly clutched to his chest. A few shouts followed him, he technically wasn't allowed on university grounds outside of daylight hours. Ignoring the objections of the smattering of academics dotted about the courtyard, he bounded up the stone steps of an ancient, moss-covered building. The heavy wooden doors provided some resistance, but with a firm heave, he force them open and slipped inside.

"Professor!"

The interior was musty and dark, the bookshelves covered with a thick layer of dust. Few ventured into this particular building, and those that did had little interest in the classics, the disciplines that so many others buried their heads in books for days on end in the pursuit of. Beyond the foreboding entrance chamber, a singular corridor stretched, the walls dimly lit by candlelights, their wicks having burnt low throughout the night. Without pause, Percy charged down the hall, sidestepping the occasional kat, clad in academic robes, as he made for the end.

"Professor!"

The final door was heavy, wrought of solid iron and standing nearly ten feet tall. Kicking the counterweight lever with his foot, Percy waiting, gasping for breath, as the mechanism shuddering and groaned. The door swung inwards, delivering a blast of hot air into Percy's face. Shielding his eyes, he pushed himself inward.

"Professor Clawson!"

* * *

" _A quarter to the sixth hour, the third day of March, the year of our lord, 1854._ "

" _The device's fuel flow problems have been resolved, much to my delight. Until now, while I have been sure of the combustion chamber efficacy, the ability of the lamentably crude injection systems to deliver adequate kerosine has been lacking. The pressure of combustion would rupture the airflow, and prevent additional fuel from reaching the chamber. Backpressure! The problem was backpressure! I was so certain that the vast difference in size between the intake and outlets would more than compensate. It seems our current understandings of thermodynamics in such systems leave much to be desired. The simple addition of a ram cone at the throat of the chamber has resolved these issues, although the propensity of kerosine to vapourise ahead of combustion raises issues regarding cooling. It will have to do, at the speeds I anticipate the device capable of reaching, convective air cooling will be sufficient. My boy has stockpiled enough fuel for the journey, I merely hope he arrives with my notes! It pains me that I must ply my trade as a bartering chip, but I see no other way; we are in desperate need of aid, and it will not come unless enticed. Word has gotten out that our fair land has fallen prey to the boots of the enemy. We must hasten our departure! There is little time…_ "

"Professor Clawson!"

Frederick Clawson removed his half-moon spectacles and slammed his diary shut. Percy burst into the workshop, doubled over and short of breath, yet clutching the ever-important notebook in his arms.

"Ah, my boy, you've made it!" he proclaimed, clasping his paws together. "No time to waste, we must set to work immediately!"

"Bloody hell, professor, gimme a moment!

A paw smacked the young kat across the top of his head. "You've got more than a shortness of breath to worry about! Help me over here!"

Still aching from the run, Percy followed the professor through his workshop. Wood and canvas cuttings littered the floor, as too did iron filings and discarded bolts. Frederick Clawson was well known in academic circles for his near complete lack of neatness and decorum, eschewing the well stocked libraries and smoking rooms of the university in favour of his workshop. To call him recluse, however, would be a disservice; he often entertained members of the engineering and chemistry faculties, debating matters of molecules and materials late into the night on many an occasion. Such visitations had been more frequent as of late, along with demands for fabric, wood and kerosene.

"This way!"

There it was. The fruit's of Professor Frederick Clawson's labours these past eighteen months. Cobbled together, a bizarre arrangement of wooden struts and copper piping, it looked for all the world the contraption of a madman. But Percy knew better, he knew the professor wouldn't have entrusted him with his notes on the part of a joke, a ruse. This machine, or so the professor claimed, was important. Something that would allow The Kingdom to turn the tide of the war. Something that would allow them to do what no kat had done before.

Something that would allow them to fly.

Percy had pondered the issue at length, at least within the limitations of his understanding. Growing up in the Southern Commonwealth, on a small farm at the foot of The Great Dividing Range, flight was the issue of birds. Never had he heard anyone speak of a mechanical flying device, something that would allow kats to achieve heavier than air flight. Even after the professor had taken him in, tutored him and nurtured him, he still understood little of the mechanics behind the device, and those around him dismissed the idea as mere fancy. The more ambitious among them had discussed the idea of powering an airborne craft with the newly developed piston engine and an arrangement of blades. Professor Clawson, however, had other ideas.

"Here!" barked the professor, gesturing to a large, folded pile of canvas. "We must stretch this over the wing surface. Bring nails and glue, boy!"

"Professor, you certain this thing's gunna work? It's not gunna go cactus on us as soon as ya fire it up, is it?"

"Of course I'm certain!" shot the professor. "What do you take me for?"

"I'm just… this is some pretty heavy stuff, yeah?

"That's the point! Once we're done here, everything will change, mark my words!"

The elderly kat heaved and tugged at the heavy canvas sheet, his frail and aging body struggling to keep up with his younger assistant. The process was slow, taking the better part of an hour despite the urgings and hurried instructions of the professor. All the while, shells continued to fall. The early morning sun now cut through the rising smoke of fires, tinted red as it splashed across the workshop wall. The professors furnace burned all the while, and by the time the two kats had completed their task, both were drenched with sweat.

Percy surveyed their handiwork. "Well, I guess you could say it looks like a bird, maybe a little munted."

"This is not some fashion parade; it will work! Aesthetics are of no concern to us!"

"Too right, she's a real beaut though, isn't she?"

Professor Clawson smiled gingerly, turning to face Percy as he did so. "Must you colonials speak in such an uncouth manner?"

"Watch it!"

The pair shared a chuckle before Frederick Clawson continued. "Thank you, my boy, I could not have built this without you, you've done me, and The Kingdom, a grand service."

Percy waved his paw dismissively. "Aw hell, professor, you worked all this stuff out, I just lifted the heavy things for ya."

"Don't underestimate yourself, Percy, you're smarter than you know, and you've got a score more common sense than any number of my students. Heads full of pomp and fluff, the lot of them! Let's not forget that it was you who calculated the resonance of my rather complex combustion chamber design; I'd have the intake diameter all wrong if it weren't for that!"

"Only 'cause you taught me."

"And a sound investment it was!" he said. "Now, let us fuel the device. The groundkeepers have cut and leveled the grass on the kricket pitch, we'll have a good two hundred yards of flat ground to take off."

While Percy set about pouring the carefully measured and prescribed mix of kerosine and ethyl alcohol into the fuel receptacle, Frederick Clawson worked the large crank handle connected to the workshops gates, allowing access onto the oval playing field that the building sat adjacent to.

"All done, professor, she's all…" Percy was interrupted by the report of musket fire and the distinct sound of roundshot on brick.

Across the playing field they came, clad in grey overcoats with muskets lowered for the charge, steely bayonets glinting in the sun. They ran at pace, the two hundred yard sprint a more promising prospect than an attempt at reloading their weapons. Besides, their targets were unarmed and unprepared, an easy kill.

"Fritz!" hissed the professor. "Blast them, blast them to hell!"

"Aww bloody hell!"

Professor Clawson hobbled over to a thick iron cabinet, nestled among sheets of metal and wood, the lock heavy and rusted.

"Boy." he shouted, paws working the latch. "You will take the notebook and fly. Take the craft, clear the treeline and make for the coast. You will cross the Atlantic, head for The Union. You are to offer them this technology in exchange for military aid. Do you understand?

"What? You're giving this up? Just like that?"

"Do you understand?!"

"Professor, I can't...I don't even know how to fly the bloody thing!"

"Have my teaching's been for naught?! Use your brain! Use your head! Operation is simple; keep it level, keep the fuel flow steady and don't let your speed drop or you'll suffer aerodynamic stall. Now go, away with you!"

One hundred and fifty yards.

The cabinet was unlocked, and Frederick Clawson thrust his paw inside. Emerging a second later, its wooden trappings a deep, rustic walnut, was a weapon. Outwardly similar to a standard musket, yet sporting a strange assembly toward the trigger; a sliding bolt and accompanying handle.

Percy's eyes went wide. "God all bloody mighty, is that one of those new rifles?"

The professor fumbled about, attempting to load a series of shiny brass rounds into the weapon.

"It most certainly is, my boy, I'm not letting those ruffians in here without a fight!"

He dropped the rifle.

Dropping to his knees, the professor clasped his trembling paws about the weapon and continued his attempts to shove bullets in. It was a sorry sight, one which brought Percy a deep feeling of sadness and regret. He couldn't let this kind, elderly, and somewhat eccentric kat, the one who had treated him so well, suffer at the paws of the enemy. He himself was young and fit, it was him who should be fighting!

One hundred yards.

Percy bent down, plucking the rifle from the professor's paws and hefting him to his feet.

"Professor." he started, locking his steely gaze with his mentor's eyes. "Go, get out of here, I'll see the blighters off!"

"Percy, what are you talking about? I'll have none of this nonsense!"

"Listen, just for once, please listen to me! I came ten thousand miles around the world, this is my town now, I'm not going to bloody give it up! I've got nothing back home, farm's gone, bushfire took the lot. If it weren't for you, I'd be on the streets. You go, she'll be right!"

Professor Clawson simply nodded. He clambered onto to the craft, securing himself in what passed for a pilot's seat, a mere strap of leather strung between two wing struts. With practiced paws, he flicked switches and pulled levers, allowing fuel to flow from the hopper into the device's combustion chamber. As he worked, Percy thrust the final few rounds into the rifle.

"Starting now, boy, get clear!"

Fifty yards.

Percy leapt clear of the workshop, rolling forward and onto the dewy grass of the oval as the pulsejet engine fired. Instantly, the workshop was ablaze, utterly engulfed by the backwash. Workbenches were overturned and shelves were stripped from the walls, their scattered contents adding to what was rapidly becoming an inferno. The noise was unbearable, a riotous, hellish buzz, drowning out all semblance of communication between the two kats.

Percy came to a crouching position, leveling the rifle on the incoming soldiers.

There were five of them, one for each of his bullets. He was a decent shot, having hunted with his father's shotgun back home, although hitting a moving target was always difficult. He shouldered the weapon, his paws slightly unsteady, shaking with adrenaline.

Percy narrowed his eyes and squeezed the trigger.

The rifled kicked like a mule. The shot went wide, clipping the ground in front of the soldier, taking a sizable chunk out of the freshly manicured turf.

The soldiers closed in.

Movement came from the corner of his eye. The professor's craft was moving, slowly exiting the workshop, trundling along the grass. Gradually, it picked up speed, bouncing and skipping across the field. For a brief moment, Percy and the soldiers paused. Jaws agape, they watched as the vehicle, the strangest yet most wondrous creation they had ever seen, jumped and fluttered away from the workshop. Each time, it would propel itself a little higher, float a little longer.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then it flew.

Professor Frederick Clawson left the ground on a crisp spring morning, never to set foot in The Kingdom again.

"Lassen Sie die Waffe!"

The harsh cries of the soldier's brought Percy back to reality. His paws worked the bolt, imitating what he had seen the Redclaws do during their recruitment performances. A second round slid into the chamber, he simply had to…

Cold steel pressed into his shoulder, biting deep, piercing fur, flesh and bone. The rifle went off in his paws as the shock and pain caused his fingers to twitch and convulse. A shrill, harrowing shriek rang out at the bullet exploded the thigh of the soldier now directly in front of him. Without the use of his leg, the soldier fell forward, driving the bayonet further into Percy's shoulder and collapsing them both to the ground.

"Get...off…"

The breath was stolen from Percy's lungs as a second, then a third bayonet was thrust at him, running the kat through and pinning his body to the ground. Grasping at his chest, the rifle discarding with three rounds left in the magazine, he gurgled and cried, tears streaming down his face as the world went slowly black. Paws slick with blood, he thrash against the assault, against the pain, straining desperately to free himself.

The fourth soldier ran his bayonet clean through Percy's neck.

Notions of honour perhaps ran deep enough for the soldiers to provide at least a modicum of dignity for the now deceased young kat. Retracting their steel from his body, they dragged it from the field, settling it under a large, green oak. The kat who had delivered the killing blow picked up one of the many pieces of canvas that had been blown about by the professor's exit. After ensuring that they would not be disturbed by Redclaws, they wrapped Percy's body, leaving it beneath the oak tree before moving on.

Those who came later, picking through the ashen remains of the college, would happen upon a simple sight. A small body, trim and lithe, wrapped in canvas, set beneath an oak tree.

Witness to katkind's greatest achievement.

* * *

Author's Note:  
I seem to kill my OC's quite a bit... Oh well, just an idea I had for a small fic set during Megawar One. I figure that because Megawar Two was shown to have biplanes and such, Megawar One was probably something resembling a line-infantry and musket affair. Anyways, yet another OC-ridden piece of rubbish from me, and my own little way of saying sorry for taking so long with Counterplay!

Cheers!  
-AR


End file.
